Is it true that if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear, it makes no sound … even if it’s a really big tree? Above, fallen giant sequoia, Alan Beymer photo (source).
In early January, a huge tree fell in a forest. No one was around to hear it, but multitudes heard about it. On January 9, the New York Times announced: “Giant Sequoia ‘Tunnel Tree’ in California Is Toppled by Storm” and devoted ten inches to its life and demise. National Geographic paid tribute, noting that the tunnel may have been a contributing factor. The Los Angeles Times called the tree iconic, and mourned the loss of “one of Calaveras County's oldest residents.” A week later, the sad news showed up in The New Yorker, in a soul-searching article by Nathan Heller, in the Culture section.
“I want, instead of honoring the tree directly, to conjure up the world in which it was a monument for me” (source).
The opening in the Pioneer Tree, carved in 1881, could accommodate a four-horse stagecoach. Thousands of visitors rode or drove through the tree until it was closed to vehicles. Then thousands more hiked the trail to and through the “tunnel tree.”“Pioneer’s Cabin, Calaveras Grove, Calif., U. S. A.” 1899 (source).
Pioneer Cabin Tree in 1952; click on image to view park ranger (source).
Pioneer Cabin Tree, January 2017 (source). A severe storm saturated the soil around it, probably weakening the already-decaying trunk and roots.
Why did a fallen tree get so much coverage? Because just about everyone still alive who ever drove through a giant tree clicked on a news link hoping it wasn’t that tree … and thereby triggered more articles. I’m sure of it, as that’s what I did. It’s been 40 years since I left California, land of giant sequoias, but whenever I see photos, memories quickly surface.There are vivid memories of walking on winding trails through aromatic forests, identifying incense cedars, sugar pines, white firs, big-cone Douglas firs and other majestic conifers framed by narrow shafts of light. Then, suddenly, a monster appears!—a tree huge beyond imagining, dwarfing all others. We stand with heads bent back, searching for the top. We inspect the thick furrowed bark, and scan the ground for cones and seedlings. One of us has brought a camera, so we join at the base and that kind soul pushes the button, immortalizing the moment.
Young field botanists in California’s Sierra Nevada.
Then there are dimmer memories—of talks and walks led by my heroes, park rangers. No photos survive. Or maybe none were taken; my parents were frugal with film. But I clearly remember what the rangers told us about sequoias, about their thick fire-resistant bark and absurdly tiny cones with minuscule seeds—such improbable beginnings for ancient giants. “The seed that grew into this tree sprouted during the Revolutionary War!” “This tree was already 500 years old when the Roman Empire fell!” Etc.Sequoia bark can be up to three feet thick at the base of the tree (source).
Sequoiadendron giganteum cones and seed (source).
And there’s one memory from long long ago, from a time of few memories:We drove through a redwood tree* in our car! It barely fit! Dad stopped inside the tree! Billy and I sat on the hood and Mom and Dad took our picture! It was fun!**